


Woman of Winter

by truekilljoy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Badass Sansa, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Complete, Divergent - WHAT I DESPERATELY WANT TO HAPPEN IN SEASON 7, F/M, Happy Ending, Post Season 6, Post-Canon, Touch-Starved Sandor, bit of smut at the end ... hehe ... but mostly just rife with tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 01:10:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8690677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truekilljoy/pseuds/truekilljoy
Summary: The Brotherhood Without Banners have travelled North to meet with King Snow and Lady Stark.The Hound is amongst them. [Post Season 6 Canon-Divergent][Written before Season 7 Aired - so no spoilers]





	1. A Meeting and a Pledge

**Author's Note:**

> This was just a fun little drabble of what I want to happen in Season 7.  
> It's show-canon divergent, not book-canon (apologies to book fans haha)
> 
> Essentially it's San/San reunion fic + UST and some smut :P
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> [note: Un-beta'd, sorry for any mistakes]

The Brotherhood without Banners rode through the gates into Winterfell.

A fresh layer of snow covered nearly every surface of the courtyard, but the bitter chill did not seem to falter the busy castle work. A strange collection of men, women, and children bustled around the yard and stables - peasants, Northern bannermen, and Wildlings alike.

Some of the Northern bannermen sent particularly scathing looks towards the Brotherhood as they dismounted, whilst some of the younger children looked to them as if they were mythic heroes - the rebellious men of the forest who fought for the good of all people.

The Brotherhood had not brought all their men to Winterfell, most camped a little further south in the woods. Only a convoy, of around a dozen men, were chosen by Sir Beric to ride North and meet with the newly appointed ‘King’ of the North - Lord Snow.

 

The Hound had seen no point to his inclusion. He was not a talker and certainly not a charmer - he could see no reason that he would prove useful on such a diplomatic endeavour. Nevertheless, Beric had insisted; 

_“We are offering him an army of mercenaries”_ he had said, _“why would we not exhibit our greatest asset?”_ Ahhh yes, the prize bull - he was used to this - he had always been the tallest, the strongest, the scariest (aside from his brother), he was accustomed to his menacing looks being used as a means for other, less intimidating men, to gain power.

As The Brotherhood were lead through the courtyard, towards the Great Hall, he heard the usual whispers from young boys and women-folk as he passed; 

_ “….the hound…his face… fire….wretched thing…”. _

 

In the Hall, crowded around, they looked a motley crew - muddy boots, mismatched clothes and armour, - _‘without banners’_ indeed, without a penny, more like. A stark contrast they presented, to the grand stonework, intricate candelabras and huge mantle. They were not waiting long before a squire entered and announced the arrival of _“King Snow and Lady Stark.”_

‘Lady Stark’? The Hound’s eyes trained towards the door and the high-table. But ‘Lady Stark’ had died at the Twins, as had the Young Wolf’s foreign wife… had this new ‘King’ married? … but no, her name would be Snow.

 

King Jon Snow entered. Somewhat as The Hound remembered him, all alabaster skin and dark curls - too slight and too pretty to ever truly strike fear into the hearts of men. Since their last meeting - the last time The Hound had stepped foot in Winterfell - he has aged some; scars now scattered his face, a beard grew too and he looked a little weathered. Although, The Hound thought bitterly, his scars were so delicate they did not seem to impeach his beauty. King Snow entered briskly, followed by a man The Hound did not recognise - missing a whole lot of fingers on one hand.

 

Behind them entered a striking women - a long braid of deep red hair trailing down her back. Lady Sansa … _his little bird._

But as she walked toward the high-table, it became immediately apparent to The Hound that this was not the same Little Bird he had left, cowering at The Blackwater - clinging to her doll. This was a woman, one made of steel, not the same trembling creature of King’s Landing. A woman of winter, her long dress fastened tight around her wrists and high on her neck, a wolf embroidered proudly on her chest.

If it weren’t for her unmistakable flames of hair, he may not have recognised her at all.

 

And towering directly behind her - was the blonde bitch, whatserface. 

It was not the first time The Hound had come face to face with a person who’d tried to kill him - but perhaps not with one who had been so nearly successful. Lady Sansa took her seat beside Snow, and they certainly looked a pretty picture - their contrasting complexions, and equally regal, sullen expressions.

 

As Beric spoke with Lord Snow, The Hound stayed towards the back of the convoy - willing himself to be smaller. Lady Sansa’s attention was completely on Beric and Snow, she didn’t say a word the entire time - but nodded the occasional agreement when Snow looked to her for direction, or consensus.

 

At one point, it seemed as though the big blonde one had made him - her eyes seemed to widen as they scanned over where he stood, and then she leant down - whispering into Lady Sansa’s ear. The Stark girl did not react - her expression as steady as ever, and her attention remained focused on Beric.

 

The meeting went, it seemed, without a hitch - and Beric shook hands with Lord Snow and bowed to ‘Lady Stark’, before turning and motioning for the men to leave. It seemed his presence had gone unnoticed - and he thanked the Gods - he could return to the camp in peace - without the confrontation, god forbid the fucking conversation that would be hurled at him by these women. He held his breath as he turned to leave … and then, amongst the clammer of boots on stone, a female voice echoed through the hall.

 

_“Not you, Clegane.”_ she commanded. He stopped dead in his tracks.

 

Several of the men gave him querying looks as they passed, Thoros gave a smirk and a suggestive little eyebrow waggle.

He turned, and walked toward the centre of the hall. Lord Snow gave Sansa a questioning look, which - once again - she acknowledged simply with a nod, and he left- fingerless man in tow.

 

And so he was left alone, standing like a damn fool in the middle of the Great Hall, whilst Sansa Stark looked down at him from her high table, and the woman who’d come closest to killing him looked as if she meant to kill him again, with her glare alone.

 

_“Lady Brienne tells me,”_ She began, her stern voice cutting through the silence - reverberating off the stone walls,  
_“that it was you she came across with Arya. ... How is my sister?... I don’t see her with you here today.”_

 

 

His eyes remain steadfast, focused on his boots.

 

_ “Your blonde-bitch beat me within an inch of my life, and as I lay dying - spitting blood - your dear little sister ripped the coin-purse out from my boot and left me. Ungrateful little shit.” _

He’s aways hated the sound of his own voice - too harsh, and his words - too rough. But no one ever bothered to teach a dog manners.

 

_“And where,”_ she continued, _“Do you suppose she might be now?”_

 

_ “Dead, most likely. Or if by some damn luck she made it to a port - maybe the East somewhere - she kept babbling on about friends in the free cities.” _

 

The blonde-one gave an indignant little scoff. And Sansa remained quiet for a moment before he heard the raking of her chair as she stood and commanded;

 

_ “Leave us, please.” _

 

Unsure if the order was directed at him, The Hound peered up, but Lady Sansa was looking to Brienne - who in turn, looked perplexed.

 

_“But, My Lady”_ she replied, in hushed tones, as if The Hound could not hear in the empty Hall, _“He is a brute! I really wouldn’t feel comf…”_

 

_ “Leave us.” _

 

And with that, Brienne conceded - bowing slightly, before exiting the Hall and leaving them alone.

 

The Hound suddenly felt extremely exposed - as if the room had become slightly colder. Lady Sansa rounded the high-table, and came forward to the edge of the raised stone platform so that she stood directly in front of him - but still above him. He continued to stare at the stonework.

 

_“Look at me.”_   She instructed. 

And it was as if all the solemnity and force in her voice had been stripped away. This was not the same tone of command she had used with Brienne.

She said it with such gentleness that he feared if he looked at her, he may break into a thousand pieces. 

And though he had said those same words to her so many years ago, he was suddenly filled with the same terror he had felt at the Blackwater.

 

He dared not move an inch.

 

And so she simply reached out, placing a finger under his chin and raisied his head up until he met her gaze. And just like that, his defences were dismantled.

 

_“I’m sorry.”_ He croaked. _“I tried to protect her, tried to keep her safe. I couldn’t. We went to the Twins, to the Eyre, we were too late. We were headed here - North - to the Wall - when …”_ and he faulted, making a gruff noise - as if he was trying to hold back a cough. Ashamed at his outburst, he looked to his boots again. 

 

And suddenly he took a knee, the weight of his confession baring down on him - mumbling; _“I failed. Failed you. I’m sorry.”_

 

She stepped down from the dais, and reached toward him again. This time, with both hands - she lifted his head up - and looked at him once more. Her steely blue eyes boring holes right through him.

On his knees in front of a Little Bird - Gods, what was the matter with him? Too sober perhaps, he thought, it had been hard to come by wine on the road North.

 

Her delicate hands touched his face - tracing over his scars for a moment - a thumb gentle stroking his soft beard.

 

He closed his eyes again, and clenched his jaw. This was too much. He tried to remember the last time someone had touched him like this - had dared to touched his horrid scars - and realised no one had touched him like this. No one. Not once.

 

She slowly lowered her hands, and he carefully opened his eyes.

 

_“You said once, that you would keep me safe.”_ She began. _“Do you still wish to serve me? To protect me?”_

 

He was taken aback. _“...The blond- Brienne…Lady Brienne…”_

 

_“Why would I want just one of the greatest warriors in Westeros by my side, when I could have both?”_ And she gave him the smallest smile.

 

The Hound took a deep breath - the first, he realised, he had taken since entering the Hall - and straightened his shoulders. Kneeling now, he was not much shorter than her - and could meet her eyes nearly straight on.

 

_ “Do you swear your fealty to me?”  _ She asked.

 

_ “I’m not a knight.”  _ He scoffed.

 

_ “You are the truest Knight, I have ever known.”  _ And she smiled at him - fully this time.

 

_ “Haven’t met many then, have you?”  _ He teased, and he found himself smiling back.

 

 


	2. A Plot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sansa utilises Sandor's skills to her own advantage.

The Hound had spent the evening smuggled away in Sansa’s chambers, out of sight. 

It seemed that as soon as she saw him in the Great Hall, she was placing him like a pawn into some plot of hers.

They had barely spoken, but there was a trust between them. He could see in her eyes, during their first meeting that she was no longer afraid of him. It was a strange sensation, to look at someone he had known for so long - who had always been consumed by fear, gods she used to reek of it.

He remembers the way she used to pluck up her little feathers, stand tall, and speak firm to mask her fear - but he could always tell - she feared him, just as she feared her Lannister captors.

But there was no fear in her now, as she sat opposite him in her bedchamber. She sat behind a small writing desk near the hearth, her attention focused on a letter - paying him no mind at all. It was odd he thought, how the only other person who had seemed so comfortable around him had been the other Stark girl - her sister. Something about the Stark girls, he thought to himself. Perhaps growing up around those great bloody Direwolves meant they did not fear having a giant predator sit beside them.

He drank absent-mindedly, picking at some bread and meats she had brought him, and sharpened his axe. But mostly he watched her - waiting for a to crack to appear in her cold exterior.

She had come and gone throughout the evening, and she had told him of her plan like an infantry guard. “I shall do this. You will wait for this signal. You shall do that.” He had nodded, confirmed his understanding, and she would leave the room again to tend to some errand. It all seemed unreal to him, what she was planning - but she seemed so sure of herself he dared not doubt her. And by Gods, he was always up for a killing - particularly when it was someone he had a personal inclination to despise.

And so now, it was late into the night, as they sat together in amicable silence. And although the fire was a little too close for his taste - he found the comfort of the castle a welcome break from the months of outdoors he had endured. He may have been a dog, but he was an indoor one - used to a particular level of comfort and luxuries. And the warmth from the fire did have a soothing effect on his bad leg.

She finished the letter, sealed it with wax, and packed it neatly away. She then began on a note, which she pondered for a while before scrawling it quickly and folding it away. She then sat for a while, in silence, staring into the fire - or at one point looking out the small window into the snowy night. They waited some more, until there was a soft knock at the chamber door.

She walked over, and leant her ear up against the wood.

_“Yes?”_ She whispered.

A soft reply came, _“He’s put his candles out M’Lady.”_

_“Thank you Pod.”_ And she turned to face the room.

She took a deep, steadying breath and walked towards her bed.

Completely ignoring The Hound’s eyes on her - she began to undress. Unfastening the intricate laces at her wrists, and reaching over her shoulders to begin to unfasten the back of her gown. The Hound felt a little ashamed for watching so brazenly - but only a little - and not enough to look away.

When she reached partway down her back, she could no longer angle her wrists and huffed a little indignantly.

_ “Could you help me, please?” _

The Hound’s eyes widened, this was beyond bloody belief. It was like roasting a giant chicken on a rotisserie in front of a starving man!

Banishing the rotisserie chickens from his mind, and mustering every morsel of self control he had - he stood, and approached her.

He stood behind her, careful not to get too close, and began loosening the laces of her gown. With every inch of lace he pulled, her dress opened to reveal an inch of her thin white chemise. His focus remained steadfast on the laces, and he vowed to himself that he would not glance at the growing expanse of pale skin - exposed at the nape of her neck.

After what felt like an age, he had managed to unfasten the dress down to her lower back. His hands hovered for a moment, and he noticed her breath was not as steady as it had been. He remained standing behind her, he seemed to have gravitated a little closer toward her during the process ....  feeling at once stiff and unsteady, he was unsure how to proceed. What had her instruction been? To help her undress. To what purpose? Was he allowed to touch her. By the gods, he longed to touch her.   
  
She cleared her throat.

_“Thank you.”_ She prompted. And he backed away, to sit by the fire once again.

She pulled her arms out of the dark blue sleeves, and pushed the bodice down to her waist, before forcing the gown off entirely, and stepping out of her skirts.

She was left, standing by the bed, in her white silk chemise, and The Hound forced himself to look directly into the fireplace for a moment.

After putting the gown away, she untied her braid. Carefully combing her fingers through, until her read hair fell in long waves around her shoulders and down her back. She continued to fuss with it, running her hands through it, pulling it over her shoulder before changing her mind, and flipping it back again.

The Hound thought if he had to endure this for a moment longer he would have to jump out the damned window.

She closed her eyes and took yet another calming breath, before picking up the note from her desk and heading to the door.  She gently opened the door, just a wide enough to hand Pod the note, without a word.  She closed the door, without latching it, and they heard Pod retreat down the hall.

She turned to The Hound, a renewed purpose and firmness in her eyes. 

She nodded to him, _“Ready?”_

He picked up his axe, and went to stand in his predetermined position, behind the door. A little on the nose perhaps, but it would suffice.

She walked towards the fire, and took her own position in front of the hearth.

The light from the fire shone through the thin material of her undergarments, silhouetting her naked shape beneath. Before he could gawk for too long, she began to cry. Although he knew the plan, it took him by surprise - and was enough to bring him back to the present task at hand.

A knock at the door came, and without falter she answered - in the most pitiful of voices;

_ “Yes?”  _ she quavered.

The door creaked open, and Petyr Baelish stepped through (note in hand).

Her performance was perfect - without so much as a glance back at the open door, behind which The Hound was hiding not so inconspicuously - Littlefinger headed straight toward her.

She gave a soft sob, before falling into his arms.

_“Oh Petyr...”_ she moaned between sobs, _“I don’t know what to do? ... What shall I do?”_

She grabbed at the collar of his gown, and snivelled into the crook of his neck. Holding him in place.

The Hound began to creep out from his hiding place, holding his breath.

_“Please...”_ she begged _“Oh Please, Petyr you’re to only one who can help me. Tell me what to do.”_

Still maintaining a firm grasp of his garments, she took a step back from him.

Tears streaming down her face, breast heaving, she gave a demure look down and then back up through her lashes;

_"Please,"_ She simpered, _“I’ll do anything you tell me.”_

And with one fell swing of his axe, The Hound took Petyr’s head clean off.

The majority of the blood splatter hit Sansa, drenching her throat and spattering over her face.

The body fell with a thunk between them, and as their eyes met, he found that she was smiling at him for the second time that day.


	3. Strange Bedfellows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hound is rewarded.

Without a second glance toward the carcass on the floor, Sansa stepped over it and brushed past The Hound, heading toward the door. She peered out and called quietly for Pod, who stepped out from the shadows and came into the chambers. 

She opened up a chest at the foot of her bed, pulled out a folded and worn muslin sheet, and unceremoniously handed it to The Hound. He took her meaning, and began wrapping up the body tightly, he grabbed Littlefinger’s head from where it had rolled and wrapped it up with the body, which he then hauled over his shoulder.

She ushered them both out of the room, and with Pod leading the way and keeping watch - they made their way down through the castle, out into the icy yard, through the gates to a clearing where they built a small pyre, upon which to burn the body. The burning of bodies not being his favourite exhibit, the Hound ordered the task to be completed by some young Wildlings and he and Pod returned to the castle.

In her chambers, Sansa had cleaned the blood from the stone floors, and was midway through cleaning the congealed blood off herself when they entered. Bloodied droplets of water ran down her neck, and soaked into the top of her chemise - staining it pink. She stopped her task when they entered, crossing to her desk and retrieved the letter she had written earlier, passing it to Pod.

_“Send a raven to The Eyre at first light”_ She instructed, _“Lord Robyn must hear this news from me before anyone else. Understood?”_

_“Yes M”Lady”_ He gave a bow and turned to exit, as he left the room she stopped him once more. _“And Pod?”_ She called, _“Thank you.”_ She closed the door behind him - latching it firmly this time.

The Hound was a little dumbfounded, standing in her chambers - alone again. But now, their task had been completed and her need for him it seemed was met. She had not given him further instruction, nor told him where he should sleep for the night…

_“Don’t stand there like a pillar”_ she said suddenly, whilst she dried herself off. _“Sit down.”_

And like a good dog, he sat once again in the chair by the fire.

She wrapped a thick robe around her shoulders, and although he expected her to take her seat again behind her writing desk, instead she sat on the foot of her bed. Leaning against one of the posters, she pulled her knees up toward her chest, and curled her arms around them. Where she lounged, her hair was still lit softly by the firelight, and in the small room she was still only within a pace’s distance from where he sat. Although, in this small chamber there was not anywhere she could go that she was not within just a pace or arm’s reach of The Hound.

_I could have her,_ he thought. He remembered as he lay dying in that damn valley, the regret he’d felt for not taking her at the Blackwater. _If I died again,_ he mused, _would I regret not taking her tonight? … His brother would_ , he thought resentfully. _His brother would have taken her the moment he had an opportunity._ The thought of Gregor mounting his little bird made him feel violently ill, and he quickly tried to shake the thought from his mind.

Although her eyes were closed, she addressed him suddenly, _“Why do you not touch me?”_

He could not believe what he was hearing! At first he was so shocked that he did not respond, he simply continued to stare at her and willed her to forget her query. But the silence stretched on, and after a while she opened her eyes and looked at him directly - his eyes darted immediately to the glowing embers of the fire. She continued to watch him, and her gaze became unbearable.

_“Suppose I don’t have the balls for it. … never been one for bravery.”_ he said to the fire.

Though he could not see, she smiled a little at this.

_“I must disagree with you -"_   She began.

_“Well if you’re so bloody wise, don’t see why you had to ask me!”_ He did not like this conversation at all. _Why was she taunting him like this?_

_“You once told me that a dog does not need courage to chase off rats…That’s what most men are - rats. Joffrey, Ramsey, Littlefinger; they’re all rats. And what they did does not take courage.”_ He was looking at her now, and whilst there was strength in her voice, her eyes were filled with tears. 

_“You never … you never hurt me. In all the time I knew you … and even now. You have courage, I think. And strength. It takes strength for you to sit there so still … to sit so close to the fire … and to me.”_ She paused for a moment, picking at a thread on her robe. _“Sometimes you look at me like you look at fire - as if I’ll burn if you get too close. … but I won’t. I mean to say … if you … if you wanted …”._

He looked to her now, shocked. Was this what it sounded like? _Was this an invitation?_ He’d dreamt of this on cold nights, sleeping in the wood. He would dream of her baring her body to him, openly, willingly, he’d imagined the smooth, pale expanses of perfect skin. But he did not move.

She slid down and stood at the foot of the bed. She surveyed him closely, waiting perhaps for him to stand too - but he remained like stone, unmoving in his seat.

She brought her hands up to the ties of her robe, sliding the heavy material off her shoulders, and it fell to the floor. She shivered a little with the change in temperature. Again, she was left standing in her thin chemise, still a little damp at the front - the firelight highlighted the places where it clung to her skin, the shape of her nipples clearly defined. 

Without warning, she moved toward him, and in two paces she was crowding him - standing between his long splayed legs, and looking down at him. If he leant forward a little, he could have rested his head on her breast and heard her heart racing. But still, he did not move.

Whatever gusto she had mustered to cross the space to him had left her, and her confidence wained - she swallowed, and worried at her bottom lip. She then tried what she had done earlier that day, and reached out her left hand - gently brushing the wisps of long hair off his face, before caressing his scars. Her touch was so gentle, just the very tips of her fingers tracing over the mottled web of pocks, and since he had lost so much feeling in that area, it felt to him like no more than a breath of air.

Slowly, she bowed her head, and laid a kiss on his scarred forehead. That, he felt. And it sent a bolt of sensation from his heart, reeling through his body to his stomach, groin, and down to his toes.

She placed several more kisses over his burns, his brow … his cheek … his bearded jaw … then his lips. With both hands she cupped his face, like he were something delicate, and she inhaled deeply as she kissed him once, slowly.

When she pulled away, and opened her eyes, she was faced with his expression of anguish - tears flowing down his cheeks, he looked as if she had stabbed him, rather than kissed him.

Bewildered and ashamed, she dropped her hands and jolted backwards,

_“I’m sorry-"_  she muttered, _"I thought you wanted ..."_ and she went to move away, taking a step backwards. Swiftly, he caught her legs between his knees, and seized her forearm with his right hand. His face softened, although his gaze was still fixed on her with a grave determination.

He drew her back toward him, and slid his left arm around her waist, pulling her closer and down until she was seated on his thigh. 

Unsure now where to place her hands, she sturdied her conviction, and snaked them around his neck. On his right shoulder, she noticed a rather grisly looking scar - in the shape of a bite mark. She began to idly trace over it, then over edge of his tunic, and across the hairs on his broad chest.

Encouraged now, and having recovered somewhat from his disorientation, he began hesitantly to touch her in return. His left hand remained firm on waist, whilst his right began to explore -the material of her chemise bunching as his large hand pushed up her thigh, brushed over stomach, over her breast - at which point she stopped her own tracing and let out an inaudible little gasp. 

His hand continued, up her neck, where he kneaded his fingers deeply into the base of her skull, and combed his fingers through her hair. He lowered his head into the crook of her neck, and drank in her scent. He always stank of the stables, and of wine - but she smelled of bath oils and fresh snow.

He kissed her neck once, and mumbled _“….don’t want to hurt you…”_

_“You won’t.”_ She replied, softly.

She tugged at his hair, and brought his head up, to look at her. They were so close like this, that their noses touched.

_“You won’t hurt me.”_ She continued, more sternly. _“Because despite all your barking - you can be a gentle man when you choose to be. And you will not hurt me because I will make sure you don’t - I will warn you if you do, and you will listen - yes?”_

_“Yes.”_ He whispered. She kissed him on the lips again, deeper this time and not so chaste, arching up slightly as his hands clutched her back, his spread hands covering nearly her entire ribcage.

From where she sat on his knee, it was easy for him to hook an arm under her legs and pick her up. He carried her toward the bed, and sat her down in the middle of the fur bedding. He began to lean over her, kissing her and pressing her down into bed.

With a hand, she gently pushed him away _“Wait”_ she cautioned. He backed away promptly, standing beside the bed - disheartened to say the least, and hard as a rock.

But she simply pushed herself up to her knees, and took off her chemise - bringing it up and over her head, before tossing it to the floor. He did not have much time to drink in the sight of her body before she moved forward and began disrobing him - tugging at his tunic until he helped her pull it over his head, and untying the laces of his pants. 

His body was a contradiction to hers, dark hair, and tanned skin mottled with scars - burns, lashes, stab wounds, arrow heads - a tapestry of abuse and warfare. And although he knew she had suffered too at the hands of her abusers - her scars were invisible on her porcelain skin, the signs of her past only visible in the way she occasionally clenched her teeth or trembled slightly as he pushed inside her. The enterprise only lasted a few short minutes - years of frustration and yearning, exciting speed and passion. But she did not mind so much, and seemed content afterwards to burrow in beside him, warm in his embrace - tracing the scars on his body once again. 

He found that for the first time in a long time, he began to drift in and out of a pleasant sleep - filled with dreams of tender kisses, and long red hair. 

Just before dawn he woke, feeling icy cold on one side and found that most of the bedding was bundled up around her, and his right side was completely exposed - the fire now just softly glowing hollow logs. He tried to adjust the furs without rousing her, but she began to stir before suddenly waking with a start, and recoiling from him in a moment of panic - before waking properly and recognising her bedfellow. She relaxed again, falling down back into his embrace, and nestling into his side.

_“You’re all right Little Bird”_ he comforted, brushing her hair and placing a kiss on the crown of her head.

_“…No one could protect me…”_ she whispered, her head rested on his chest, _“… You were right. ... And in the end I was hurt. … But, you know …I am not the little bird you thought I was all those years ago - I don’t need your protection.”_

_But hat was a hound good for, if not protection?_ He tried not to show his hurt at her comment, but a gruff little noise rumbled in his chest and she heard.   
She propped herself up on her elbow to face him.

_“I don’t need your protection, but I will accept it none-the-less.”_ And she kissed him softly. _“What I need is your companionship. Your care and devotion …. your love. And I think Sandor, perhaps, you need it too.”_

 

***

 

Just after daybreak, upon hearing the news of Littlefinger’s demise - Lady Brienne dressed as quickly as humanly possible, before charging down the hallway and into Lady Sansa’s bedchambers. 

She was shocked to say the least at the sight she discovered there - The Lady of Winterfell and The Hound snuggled up in bed. 

At the sight of Brienne’s bewildered expression, Sandor let out a howl of laughter loud enough to wake the entire castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed this little fic :)


End file.
